


Part Three (E/R): The Torment

by squishgurl



Series: Doomed Revolutionaries [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishgurl/pseuds/squishgurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone in the dark, Enjolras considers exactly what he has given up; and whether he can live with the sacrifice. Part Three of the Doomed Revolutionaries series.</p><p>Visions danced in front of waking eyes, the one that existed and others, terrible, beautiful images of the two of them, wrapped in tender embrace, caressing, kissing, loving. There was no way to escape, he was a prisoner to the dark and its torture. He considered for a moment lighting a candle, but decided against it in an instant. These images were his Hell and he would meet them as Dante had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part Three (E/R): The Torment

He was soaked to the bone by the time he reached his apartment, throwing the door open only to drip trails of water onto dusty floorboards. The storm had come out of nowhere, his own foul mood seeming to have summoned Notus. Being caught in the rain, just this once, was a relief to him, as opposed to a disservice; it afforded him the opportunity to weep silently without the inquiring glances of others. As it was, he wiped hot stinging tears out of his eyes as he fumbled to light a candle on his dresser. The grubby candle illuminated most of the room, more so when he moved it to the centre of the desk, and he glanced around the small room, searching for anything to stem the flow of water from what seemed like every crevasse of clothing. It was familiar and yet as a stranger to him, like a relative from childhood. He didn't feel as if he were spending any time here anymore; every free moment he had from school, he was preaching around the city or holding meetings at the café Musain. His books remained stacked neatly in the corner of his dark mahogany desk, a thick layer of dust collecting on them. Everything had it's proper place, Enjolras was a man of strict regiment and order. It was sparsely décored, the one exception to this was his bed. Large, soft, white, it took pride of place in the centre of the room. He pulled a small blanket from the top of it and used it to brush the water from his clothes.

The floor beneath him was a lake and he dropped the blanket, in an uncaring attempt to absorb the water. He peeled his black coat from his saturated white shirt, letting it fall on top of the blanket. He stripped completely, feeling liberated as he stepped away from the pile of wet. Kicking it to the corner of the room, he reached out and quenched the flame with dripping fingers, plunging the room into complete darkness. He stood, naked, in the dark, looking for anything to distract him from the suffering in his soul.

It seemed to him a physical pain, though he knew it to be impossible. His chest hurt, bile rose at the back of his throat; the sweet wine remaining on his tongue a harsh reminder of the embarrassment he had suffered not an hour before. Which, he reasoned sadly, was the least horrifying part of tonight's revelations. In the dark, the terrible torment of Nix and Erebus was to have him relive the thing he wished to God he could unsee. Visions danced in front of waking eyes, the one that existed and others, terrible, beautiful images of the two of them, wrapped in tender embrace, caressing, kissing, loving. There was no way to escape, he was a prisoner to the dark and its torture. He considered for a moment lighting a candle, but decided against it in an instant. These images were his Hell and he would meet them as Dante had. 

It was some perverse show for sick voyeurs, Enjolras thought, as the images continued to emerge. Courfeyrac, pinning Grantaire down, having him hard and fast as the other growled beneath him, bucking and biting and trying to get free. Then it was Grantaire that rode Courfeyrac, slow and considerate and loving, everything that Grantaire was. In this one they came together and Enjolras felt his body physically convulse in disgust. Courfeyrac again, torturing Grantaire now, fingers and tongue probing him as Grantaire writhed and cried out beneath him. Grantaire, kneeling in front of Courfeyrac, leaning over to take him into his mouth, eyes fixated on Courfeyrac's emerald ones. Enjolras couldn't take it; not his Taire, worshiping another man the way he had only done for him. He cried out and just before the image disappeared, just before Grantaire swallowed him, his eyes turned to stare into Enjolras'; the menacing look from the tavern burning into Enjolras' soul.

He fell backwards on to his bed, his wet curls a relief against the burning blush of his cheeks as the images conjured caused his body to respond. He wanted to weep but found quickly that no tears remained. The low hum of desire settled at the base of his spine and his erection strained painfully, longing to be touched. Enjolras was disgusted with himself, physically revolted and the urge to heave was worse than ever. He wanted to curl in on himself, but was sure that any pressure at all on his cock would cause him to come undone. He was rock hard now, some sort of perverted masochist. 

The bed had been a bad decision, as above him the images continued. Courfeyrac loving Grantaire with his mouth, Grantaire's head thrown back, the long line of his neck curved at an angle that should be impossible. Grantaire leaning over, raising a hand to stroke Courfeyrac's cheek as Courfeyrac leaned in to kiss him deeply. Like he had only an hour before.

Enjolras shot up, stalking straight to the window and throwing the shutter open, sighing as the cold air caressed his feverish skin. The moon was bright, all of Paris was bathed in warm light; raindrops scattering light across the rooftops and pattering quietly onto his face and skin, but none of it held any comfort to him. As he looked out over everything he was willing to fight and die for, only emptiness filled his soul. He was doomed to be a discontent, he realized, without Grantaire at his side.

Days ago, he was sure he had done the right thing. But now, when he was alone and could be selfish, he wanted nothing more than to summon Grantaire and love him over and over again. To be watched with those intelligent eyes; caring, worshipping eyes that made Enjolras Achilles in the presence of his Patroclus. A perfect warrior for truth and liberty.

Grantaire had been his one indiscretion, his one selfishness. Whenever he felt weak or was ever in doubt, Grantaire had always been there, all cynical comments and sardonic humour, but always present. It was only natural they fall into bed together; he the marble statue of justice and passion and Grantaire, a creature of despair and doubt. They completed each other; each reveling in what the other lacked. Grantaire soared in the presence of Enjolras and in return, Grantaire reminded Enjolras of that which they were fighting for. Not by design, in fact, quite the opposite. But part of Enjolras needed Grantaire; needed someone who was not bound to the cause like he. Needed someone he could be selfish with. It was human nature, to seek out companionship and adoration and in Grantaire, Enjolras honestly saw someone he could form a real attachment to. As perverse as it was, his belief in nothing was refreshing and relieving to Enjolras. It required nothing of him, other than to be himself.

But as much as he cared for him, he needed him, Enjolras' other obligations were many. He could afford no distractions, not even pleasurable ones, especially not pleasurable ones. This revolution was not a game, and to Enjolras it seem that he was the only one aware of the potential consequences of their action. It was his responsibility; they were his responsibility. And they were his friends; he wanted nothing more than for them all to escape this with their lives.

He planned; for hours at the back of the café, studying maps of his beloved Paris, sewer maps, road maps, building blueprints. Planning every possible military action by the Guard, every counter action they could take while his friends gave into revelry and drink. He didn't blame them, not really. He was envious of the joviality sometimes but held no stock in wine. He would rather work hard so that they may continue living life. After all, it was he who recruited them to this fool's errand.

He wished he had the patience of Combeferre, of whom he was still convinced was writing him a manifesto of the merits of peaceful protest and education. To Enjolras he seemed even more an idealist than himself, for Combeferre refused to believe this ended until peace reigned. If the oppressed had another twenty years for Combeferre’s solution to bear fruit, Enjolras would have supported it whole heartedly. But the people were dying, his people, and he could not stand idly by.

He shook his head, slamming the window shutters closed; a dog barking in the street at the noise. At times, he felt the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. Those times, he would go to Grantaire, allow the other boy's love and compassion wash over him like the renewing stream of the River Lethe. He allowed himself, for a moment, to forget the world around him, the pain, the suffering, the sickness and just be Enjolras. 

He sighed, leaning his head against the cool wood. This was what he’d been afraid of; that Grantaire had already crawled too deeply into his soul and he would never be free of him. That boy, who believed in nothing, save Enjolras himself; who could silence Enjolras with a whip of his savage tongue. The only person who had come close to seeing the person Enjolras was behind the mask. But in this, he was dangerous; too appealing, too intoxicating, too distracting.

Enjolras threw himself back on the bed, his anguished thoughts sobering him up quickly. He neglected to dress, rolling himself up in the covers; curling in on himself. He ignored his body screaming at him; ignored the dull ache in his chest where Grantaire hand usually sat, resting easily over his heart as the dark haired cynic held him from behind after they made love. He ignored it all, because he had to. His decision, while it felt like it was physically tearing him apart, was the right one. He just had to ignore the pain. Eventually, he assured himself, it would stop hurting.


End file.
